Undeniably Me, Unbelievably You
by IssaLee
Summary: A series of 100 total drabbles and oneshots, centered around HarryDraco, and mostly everything these boys could ever come up with.
1. Begin Again

**Word Count: 2, 187 **

**Prompt: Beginnings

* * *

**

Draco found that, if he tried hard enough, he could visualize the beginning of the Earth's existence.

In his mind's eye he could see the trees, budding up to form the leafy green foliage that covered him as he sat underneath the willow by the lake. He could see the sun, bursting into its full clarity, shining down on the dull and still slothful creatures on Earth, blinking lazily as they examined their new selves, newly there.

Draco could imagine the beginning of wizard-kind; the first person who touched a finger to a violet plant, perhaps, and turned it a light shade of magenta. Magic was raw, back then, and uncontrollable. He wondered if that would have made a difference in the death tolls.

Some days, the Slytherin would speculate on the odd things. Where did the star-obsessed centaurs come from, for example? Were they always there? He believed that they began from the stars, falling down to the Earth in hitting it with such force that their bright yellow coats instantly became the dulled brown of the surface, and that their deep harbored resentment for humans was simply because _they_ knew what it was like to be free; why associate with those still chained? Draco thought maybe, when the centaurs craned their necks up to the sky and looked down looking dazed, they were talking to the stars.

Draco could remember, quite clearly, the day his rivaling with Harry Potter began. The foregone and rejected offer of friendship, still leaving him humiliated to this day. He could remember the beginning of that friendship with Weasley, or Granger, and he could remember the beginning of the school year, which had started out with him in high spirits but by the time Harry Sodding Potter had finally gotten to the sorcerer's stone, Draco knew he was doomed.

The blonde remembered the beginning of his father's frequent lectures, always starting the same way.

"_I can't believe this, Draco."_

What was there not to believe? What was so impossible? Harry Potter did everything better, higher, faster and more unbelievably than he did. There was nothing to think about. Draco would always be second choice. The only thing he could hold over Potter's head were his looks, and Draco actually _worked_ for that. Potter didn't, and he was a close second.

Draco could remember the beginning of his _own_ friendships. The time Blaise Zabini had approached him, sneering lightly and looking barely afraid, as he had requested to sit next to Draco. Draco had complied.

When Pansy Parkinson took an uncanny liking to him, telling him she was going to make sure he loved her someday, he had thought it was the beginning of a miserable hate-ship. It turned out differently, however, when the "fact" that she loved him with an undying passion became a long running inside joke between the three.

Draco liked to think about the beginning of their adventures, beginning shortly after second year, when in the light of the Chamber of Secrets, they had been restless. They had wandered the hallways, removing things and placing them where they didn't belong, hexing first-years; minor things. He remembered when he had accidentally dropped a bottle of Spelled Glue all over Marcus Flint's chair, and then thoughtfully dropped pink glitter into the mixture as well. That was the beginning of a sad bullying.

He knew exactly when Dumbledore had started jokingly referring to them as the Silver Trio, a play off of the Gryffindor Golden Trio. The name had stuck, amongst the staff, and by sixth year, it had spread to the houses as well.

Draco could remember the beginning of his rocky friendship with Harry Sodding Potter—whose middle name turned out to be James, not Sodding as he had thought after all, or even woefully wondered, The Boy Who Lived or just Lucky Bastard.

They had been unceremoniously dumped into doing a long-term project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and whilst Harry had merely looked shocked, Draco had made sure to say it all in words. This had resulted in double detentions; two for each, although all Harry did was nod dumbly and say 'yeah' every few moments.

"You're an idiot," Draco had muttered bitterly.

"Yeah, but I _still_ wasn't the one who got us here," Harry retorted, smacking Draco lightly on the shoulder with the wet rag he was using to swab the desks. "So that means _I_ am the better one. Hah."

Draco had pushed him into a cauldron and laughed when he got stuck.

Draco remembered the beginning of their closer friendship, the day he'd found Harry sitting inside of the library, writing something on a piece of parchment instead of doing his work.

"Scribbling love notes to Granger, Potter?"

"No. Writing letters, too late."

Draco peered at the top of the parchment just before Harry finished rolling it up, and caught the words 'Dear Sirius' heading it. He wondered if this was the same Sirius Black who had been convicted of killing Harry's own parents and if the Gryffindor was writing a scathing letter to the recently deceased man, but the next day he wandered into the library again just in time to find Harry finishing the letter with a tear-blotted 'Love, Harry'.

Maybe they were having a clandestine, scandalous affair.

Draco seriously doubted it.

But when he'd approached Harry about it nearly a week later, on the anniversary of the convict's death, he'd had to hold the Gryffindor when Harry broke down, sobbing out a story so magnificently depressing that Draco's handkerchief soon became a token of their mingled tears.

He remembered the beginning of that horrid day, which had started out with a pink-tinged sunrise, brilliant against the sky. He was sitting in the still dark Great Hall already, daydreaming a little _too_ much about what Harry would think when he had his Christmas present. Draco shook himself and went back to his Charms essay, willing himself to concentrate long enough to finish it.

He never did.

The doors to the Great Hall had been promptly incinerated, admitting the many Death Eaters Draco suspected were _not_, in fact, here to enroll. Struggling to stand up and with a very visible, nasty head wound was one enraged Harry Potter, wearing an over-sized pair of sweatpants and a rather embarrassing maroon sweater with an 'H' emblazoned upon it. Draco quirked an eyebrow at the odd assemblage, before discreetly taking his wand from his pocket and performing a mild freezing and containment spell. Harry blinked in wary surprise; the spell had left him untouched.

"Malfoy," he said, a slight grin on his features. "Have you finally crossed over to the light side?"

Draco sneered. "As if, Potter. There _is_ no Light side."

"But there's a Dark one?"

"But of course. It's the one thing I have that you don't, Potter."

Harry had looked strangely forlorn. "That's what you think."

Before Draco could question him, the spell wore off. Harry took a moment to dispatch most of the crowd cleanly before Draco regained his senses, Stunning and Stupefying and occasionally (until Harry intervened angrily) casting Tarantellegra or a Bat-Bogey hex.

"Do you take anything seriously?" he had been asked later, almost hours later, when the novelty of it all had worn off and he was sitting with his legs tucked under him as he sat in the Headmaster's office. McGonagall was looking at him prudishly, and he swallowed an inane laugh.

"But of course, _not_. The world is not serious, and so I am not."

He thought it rather rude to be handing out a detention to the Boy Who Saved The Boy Who Lived's Life. He decided to bring it up the next time he sneaked into a meeting between the professors.

Draco remembered the beginning of his downward spiral, shortly after that. The botched attempt to kidnap Harry Potter as he stumbled out of bed caused all the wards to go up, but a month later, around dusk, he and Harry and Granger and the two Weasleys left were outside, by the lake. Draco could sense Professor Sprout's anxious eye on them from the Greenhouses; there was always someone watching them. Always. Unfortunately, a Herbology teacher cannot do much for one once she has been knocked unconscious.

Draco stared into the beady eyes of Vincent Crabbe, mouth twisted in a dark scowl as Goyle bound Granger and the Weasleys to a tree.

"You're scum," he spat, as Crabbe carefully prodded his throat. Harry had raised his hands in submission, and was now holding onto the proffered hand of Goyle, although not without much loathing.

"So're you," Crabbe had replied, and then said the Portkey's activation words. The familiar tugging on his navel, the unbelievable feeling of exhaustion he got as he stumbled into the dungeon cell, and the feeling of remorse and guilt as he watched Harry slump to the ground next to him were all fresh in his mind.

Draco remembered the beginning of his torture. They never touched Harry, choosing instead to hurt him where he could feel it. Harry could withstand pain. Draco could as well. But Harry would break much more easily if he had to watch, and Draco considered this more brutal than actually touching Harry himself.

He remembered the beginning of the pain, burning so clearly into his skin, his screams as he lay in that puddle of dirty water, tasting metallic, and his widened eyes as he realized it was his blood he was lying in, not water. He remembered how Harry's sobs always began, low at first and indistinguishable from his hoarse questions, but then they escalated as he clutched Draco to him like a broken dummy, promising things he could never give.

Draco remembered the beginning of his downfall. His mental walls crumbled first, so that he couldn't even speak well enough to assure Harry they would get out of this. He remembered how he had flung himself in front of the guard's fast descending boot, his last willing action, before it hit Harry.

"Don't defend me," he whispered, twisting up as his stomach convulsed. There was something in his mouth. He pretended it was a potion, not blood, and that he was not supposed to swallow. "You'll only get hurt."

Harry never said anything back.

He could remember the beginning of the defeat of the Dark Lord as well. Hearing the battle cries grow nearer, crying out in agony now as his skin touched air because his sessions were longer, crueler.

"This isn't right," Harry said, channeling as much magic as he could muster from his weakened state into Draco's body. "You have to get better, please."

"Who'll miss me, Potter? I'll just have saved you, again."

"I will. I'll miss you."

Draco pretended not to hear.

Whenever Draco slept, he saw his musings take form. The centaurs falling from the sky, the beginning of the world, of wizard kind, and the first diluted blood that somehow became the first Muggle. He saw the beginning of his life, of his lessons, his schooldays, his friendships, his heartache, and his growing respect and love.

"We're going to live through this," he heard a faint voice say.

Draco rolled over, cringing immediately as he did so, but it saved him from answering. Harry didn't press the matter, only wrapped his arms around Draco's waist, using his body heat to keep Draco's warm, never mind that he wasn't shivering from the cold.

Draco remembered the beginning of the end, watching both slip through the Dark Lord's fingers like sand; the beginning of his reign, the end of problems. He heard the final trumpet call, saw a weakened Voldemort flee into their cell, screaming obscenities as he saw his castle's walls crumble. Something cold and wet fell on Draco's nose; it was snowing.

He tried to call out Harry's name, and to his astonishment, found he was alone. Even Voldemort was gone. Draco wondered for the briefest second if he had been abandoned, but when he tried to sit up in his panic, his stomach lurched and he fell back just as quickly. As he rapidly lost consciousness, he remembered looking directly into worried green eyes, vapid with attention.

"It's over, it's over," a voice was chanting.

Draco closed his eyes, mouth forming the words he wanted so desperately to hear himself say. "I know."

The beginning of his closest relationship was at that moment, although he didn't know it. He didn't realize it until, nearly a year later, on New Year's Eve, when he was sitting inside of 12 Grimmauld Place, eyes closed as his breath was snatched away by a doe-eyed Gryffindor.

"This is—," Harry began, but Draco stood and stopped him, taking the other's rougher hands in his own. "It's done, ended," Harry tried again, but the blonde shook his head, as the room erupted into cheers.

"This, _Harry_," he said quietly, "This is only a beginning."

Harry looked at him, head cocked to one side, before smiling. "You've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?"

"Too long," Draco agreed.

* * *

I am fidgeting nervously at this moment, just in case you can't tell. I know, I know...I've said no new stories, but this is different. More like drabbles, for the FanFic100 community on LiveJournal, and although I haven't registered officially with them, I still thought this would be cool. Living Beautifully will be updated very soon and finished, as will Overshadowing Padders and Objective. I swear it on my auntie's grave, although she is not dead yet.

There will be 100 total drabbles, all of a minimum 100 word count. All must be centered around a certain pairing, but others can be in the background. Also, there are word prompts that the fic must be centered about as well. That's about it, so...enjoy!


	2. Our Middle Ground

**Word Count: 1, 127 **

**Prompt: Middles

* * *

**

There was a Middle to everything, of course.

People could always meet halfway on nearly everything, whether it was how to solve a war, or merely what they were going to have for breakfast that morning.

Harry had decided long ago that this was never going to happen as long as he was with Draco Malfoy, because the man managed to disagree on nearly _everything_ he thought up. Sometimes, Harry thought Draco did it on purpose. Their middle ground was invisible, a tiny black dot in an unmistakably black horizon, and he knew that Draco knew that he knew it.

* * *

"Where're we going to eat tonight?"

"What?"

"Eating, Draco. It's our anniversary…two years, remember?"

"Eh."

A sigh. "Can you just tell me where? I feel like Chinese."

"I don't."

"And Indian? How about Russian? Caribbean?"

"And pizza?"

Angrily, "It's our _anniversary_, Draco!"

"…Fine, you can have your own box, then."

* * *

Harry stood on the edge of a very dangerous chasm, sometimes, teetering above the brink of his existence, never moving, always still, and waiting quietly, patiently, almost for too long, watching Draco's figure across the chasm.

Neither made the move towards each other.

* * *

"Let's go shopping," Draco said brightly. Harry looked up, looked down, and the pressed at his forehead.

"It's four o'clock in the morning, Draco. Can we go later on today?"

"I'm in the mood for new things. Let's go!"

Harry rolled over, and said nothing. Draco shoved him off of the bed. Sputtering, Harry stood, and then snatched a pillow away from the blonde and ripped off a sheet, then stalked away into their living room.

"Later, then?" Draco called after him.

Harry ignored him, flopped onto the couch, and tried again. Not a minute later, he felt a warm body press into his own, a mumbled apology, and an order to get back into the bed.

"We can go later," Harry yawned as he shuffled groggily after the blonde. Draco waited until they were both half-asleep before looked over at Harry with hooded eyes.

"I don't want to go anymore. 'Night."

* * *

The Harry on the edge of the chasm looked down into the endless void, peering briefly at Draco, before he pulled up one foot. Draco looked up instantly, and a cross look flitted across his face before he returned to being his indifferent self again.

Harry peered down again.

* * *

"I want to murder him," Harry muttered across his coffee, welcoming the scent of the caffeine that woke him up every morning. Footsteps were heard before Hermione could answer, and he rolled his eyes. "Watch."

Draco peeked in, nodded at Hermione, and then looked straight to Harry. "Got a call back from the Ministry, we can have our leave for the vacation."

Hermione shot a look at Harry, but he ignored her. "And when are we leaving? On the twenty-fifth, like I asked, or on the twelfth?"

"Forget that," Draco said, waving a hand. "We've got two hours to get to the Floo hub. Let's go."

Harry didn't bother looking to Hermione as she spilled her tea.

* * *

"Tan or red?"

"How about light beige?"

"Red it is. Blue sheets or white?"

"White?"

"I wanted blue."

"Well, then, let's get powder-blue."

"I see green. Forget it."

* * *

Harry-Across-The-Chasm blinked, shrugged, and pulled his foot back from the dangerous step he had been about to take. Sighing a little morosely, he took a few steps back, and then turned around completely. Lifting a hand in farewell, he started to walk away.

Draco started, stared at the retreating figure.

* * *

Harry was starting to wonder when Draco would get it. He was naïve; he knew that, but not so much so that he knew this wasn't going to work out. It was raining outside, Draco couldn't decide what they were going to do to pass the time, and he was tired.

"Where are you going?" the blonde asked, watching as Harry grabbed his keys, and stepped outside of the door.

"For a long walk."

"It's raining."

"I know."

Harry couldn't help but feel strangely guilty as he slammed the door in Draco's face, seeing the dejected expression.

"I can't help it, you know," a voice came through the door.

The rain pattered softly against Harry's skin, and he didn't move. Leaning against the wall, he tilted his face towards the heavens, willing the rain to wash him away.

"I'm not going to blame it on my pride, or my upbringing, even though I know that's what you want me to say. It's what you want to hear, am I right?"

Harry sank down, sitting on the ground with his knees bent, head nestled on top of them, eyes clear and brain confounded. His wand was jutting up from his pocket, and he considered using it to shield himself from the cold he was starting to feel, but ignored it. Let him be sick; he had been lovesick, heartsick, homesick, and every other type of ailment associated with things cherished too much, too often.

"I'm sorry. It's just me, being _me_."

* * *

Draco-Across-The-Chasm took a running leap, and Harry turned, frightened even though he hadn't seen anything. He sprinted for the abyss, knowing it was too late, and that nothing he could do would help his lover to cross the inescapable tendrils of darkness reaching out to take him in. Harry closed his eyes, and plunged as well.

* * *

The rain was cool, and it had turned rough and felt like needles prickling at his skin. His breath misted across the air, and he realized the liquids falling across his face weren't rain after all.

* * *

_You're an idiot, Potter._

_And you're queer, which is two things we both are._

_We're not the same. There's nothing we can agree on._

_But there's always a middle ground._

_No. Never._

_Never?_

_Never.

* * *

_

They both opened their eyes at the same time, at the same moment Draco opened the door so Harry could fall back in. They were sitting on an upraised rock, that tiny dot they had nearly missed, now standing on the mercifully just wide enough space, clutching each other as though they were all they had left.

And sometimes, that was enough.

* * *

Green eyes met gray, albeit upside-down. Grinning slightly, Harry sat up, and turned himself around, shutting the door behind him as he stood up. Draco raised an eyebrow at him.

"Going for a walk?" he repeated incredulously. "A swim is more like it."

Harry grabbed his wrists, laughed, and pulled them closer together. He brought his lips down on Draco's with bruising force, removing all snide comments from the blonde, and it wasn't until minutes later that they broke apart.

"The bed?" Harry said softly.

"The couch," Draco said, grinning wryly.

Harry hesitated, and then they both smiled, speaking their thoughts aloud in unison.

"The floor."

* * *

Written while listening to...er...a song. By The Used. Must find out name...


	3. End Of My Everything

**Word Count: 925 **

**Prompt: Endings

* * *

**

Harry knew there was an end to everything, but he had never expected any of them to be anything like this. Him sitting, robed in black, eyes hooded as someone droned on and on above the podium.

"…Remarkable young man, worked hard at everything he did…"

Harry wanted to laugh. The man he had known _was_ remarkable, amazing, hell, even miraculous. But he had never worked truly hard for anything in his life, except for maybe his looks.

"…Was a role model for the children, always studied hard, an asset in the fight against the Dark Lord…"

Green eyes narrowed. An asset? An _asset_?

"Assets don't normally save the Boy Who Lived and then go about weakening the Dark Lord with several stab wounds until the BWL can manage to Avada him," Ron whispered from next to him.

"They don't know, Harry," Hermione said, punching Ron lightly. "They weren't there."

_But I was._

"…Draco Malfoy presented to us a fine specimen of the human being, and was a talented, gifted young man, who was misunderstood by many…"

At this, Harry tuned the man out. Draco was not misunderstood. He _was_ the cunning, ideal Slytherin, not afraid to betray someone who had been his friend since childhood. Draco never liked to have to work for himself, not when he knew someone else could do it for him. He hated being nice, and frequently would do random acts of cruelty to see what would happen; thus their contests as Hogwarts.Draco had never even once apologized for his early years. He had never blamed it on his father, his mother, his ways, his heritage, his pride; he had always stated that it was, quite clearly, him being him.

It was undeniably like him, Harry thought, To not have someone like Blaise, or even himself to go up and deliver a eulogy about him. _They_ knew him, but he didn't want the rest of the world to. He didn't want to be considered weak.

But Draco could be different.

He had revealed to Harry a curious, intelligent side, one that demanded explanations for nearly everything. The common bond between him and Hermione, though he was loathe to admit it, was that they both could function better than most around loads of information. They both felt secure in a world where they knew the solutions to all the problems, and unanswerable questions were the enemy incarnate.

He had been mischievous, much to Harry's chagrin and sometimes, delight. Such as the occasion when all the Weasleys had sported hair that actually flickered back and forth and emanated heat for a week, and Harry had refused to speak to Draco until it turned back. The night he returned home after checking to make sure the hair was merely flame-_colored_, he found Draco sitting up in bed, a bottle of chocolate syrup in one hand, and a blueberry in the other.

"Not cherries?" Harry had asked, raising an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of the past Slytherin.

"I think we've both seen enough red for a while, don't you?"

He could be kind, and wholly gentle, as Harry had been delighted to find out. When angered, Draco would keep his emotions in check, but as soon as he was somewhere private, it was best to leave him alone lest you didn't mind losing an appendage or six. His fingers, long and slim, would constantly run through Harry's hair with the softest of touches, never too roughly. His kisses, while heated and passionate, never went beyond melting Harry into a puddle. They had never been hurtful; sometimes brusing, sometimes needy, but never in a way that would bring Harry pain.

He was easily amused, Harry found. The first time Harry had gotten lost in the Floo system as he attempted to find their new home, and finally managed to stumble through the fireplace in the early morning, Draco had rushed from the kitchen, taken one look at him, and then burst into laughter. That was another thing, as well.

Draco laughed so rarely that it all seemed to build up; the mirth, the happiness, and everything he had ever thought hilarious tumbled from his lips, dancing out and floating in the air like the flecks seen through the sun on a bright day. Harry would always be entranced, and he by the time he would come back down to earth, Draco was usually pulling him someplace for a snog. Or seven.

Something sharp poked Harry in the side, and he realized that they were all standing. It was over. Standing up fluidly, the way Draco had once attempted to teach him to do but deemed him un-teachable for, Harry walked out of the aisle and moved up, Hermione and Rob staying a respectable distance behind him.

The past Gryffindor had barely reached the large and ornate marble tomb before a wave of nostalgia hit him.

* * *

"_Potter! Potter, you idiot!"

* * *

_

"_You're dead, Potter."_

"_Funny, you'd think I would've stopped walking by now."

* * *

_

"_Fine. I'll call you _Harry _then."

* * *

_

"_I heart you, Potter? Your first love letter said 'I heart you'?"_

"_Malfoy, it's just a drawing."_

"_And a crude one at that."_

"_Malfoy, do you understand the whole point of it?"_

"_Well…obviously."_

_A hopeful look. "Really?"_

"_Well, you heart me, for one…"

* * *

_

Harry started to laugh, softly at first, and then it started to crescendo, becoming a series of sobs as he did so. Someone was kneeling next to him, and he realized he had knelt as well. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, rocking him back and forth, and another voice was whispering in his ear, telling him everything was going to be all right.

Everything was going to end, at some point. And for him—

_Everything_ ended.

* * *

Sadsadsad. Written while watching Carlton Banks from Fresh Prince dance along with a candlestick. Also sadsadsad.


	4. Rhythm

Disclaimer: Propaganda can buy you.

* * *

**Word count: 1.079  
Prompt: Insides

* * *

**Draco's heart is on the inside.

He doesn't know about anyone else, but he knows that he is nothing but what heart is not, and he most definitely does not seem to mind.

☼

When he was younger, Lucius used to tell him to stop playing around with the pets he had amassed over his rather hellish first seven years of life. When Draco had refused, every one of them was killed.

_Have a heart, Malfoy._

Draco wasn't sure whether to be upset over that or to just accept it, like he had when he was seven and when his father was God, even now. Instead he sat in the darkness of his room, shrouding himself in the only thing he could see that was even vaguely reminiscent of himself.

_Have a heart, Malfoy._

Draco grimaced.

_Have a heart, Malfoy._

He hated that voice.

☼

Hogwarts and the Wizarding World had been taken by surprise when the final attack came. Draco couldn't help but think it was hilarious. On the day that the Order of the Phoenix was just sending out its troops to be stationed around all of the Wizarding World, they were slaughtered as they left their bases.

He supposed the Weasleys must have taken it hard when they found out they had two children left. Weasley and Weaselette. Kept home safe by orders of the Golden Boy, since they were still underage.

Draco never wondered about Hermione Granger. He couldn't care less, really. Because she had heart, she would always have a heart, and Draco was fine knowing she was locked up, now. She would find a way out. The war took a toll on everyone's mind, and they all lived. Besides, her heart was in the right place. On the outside.

_Have a heart, Malfoy._

He wondered about Harry.

☼

"What are you doing, Malfoy?"

Dropped things. Picked up. "Nothing."

Silence.

"You're leaving, aren't you?"

_Nice deduction, Potter._ "Nice deduction, Potter."

"Am I really right, Malfoy?"

_Yes._ "No."

Silence. Hesitation. Glasses fumbled. A sigh.

"Geez, Potter, here. And don't drop these again, you're going to die at this rate."

"What?" Startled.

Another sigh. "If you can't hang onto your glasses in the middle of a school hallway, how are you supposed to manage not to become blind on the battlefield."

"Why are you leaving?"

Automatic response. Stifled. "Potter, turn around, please."

"Malfoy."

"People are going to die anyway."

"Malfoy! Malfoy, stop!"

Rush of a Portkey. Blurred face. _Potter, are you_ crying

"Have a heart, Malfoy! Don't do this!"

☼

_Have a heart, Malfoy._

_Have a heart._

_Heart._

What, Draco mused, defines a heart? Everyone has one, right? Otherwise you wouldn't be able to perform The Function, living. Draco frowned. So one didn't have to be compassionate to have a heart, correct? And, the best place to have your heart would be outside. Where everyone could see it, because when it's inside it's unused.

He wondered what Harry would say.

☼

"Don't be an idiot."

"What?"

"I wouldn't have said anything."

☼

He already did _have a heart_.

That changed things. Draco closed his eyes. What did it mean, again, to have a heart? Somewhere in there was love, but that was too much. Complex things during even more puzzling times were not popular with him.

☼

There is someone banging at his door.

☼

He doesn't move.

☼

There was music, he thought, as the door burst open. There was music on the day when he had seen Harry's heart. Harry's beating, beating heart.

The music was in the rhythm of his breathing, and his steps, and everything else Harry did. Harry's heart was not just on his sleeve; it was all over Harry, entwining with his breathing and gasping and little quirks about him.

☼

Draco thinks a bad thought.

He wants another war. He wants to see Harry jump in front of his body again, and he wants to feel those last drumbeats that were all across Harry's body. Hermione had been screaming _spasms_, but they weren't.

Draco recognized that rhythm. He knew and he hated that he knew, but Harry's heart, that had covered him like the warmest of cloth before, was strangling him. It was taking all his life away.

☼

That, Draco reflected, was probably why he was glad his heart was on the inside.

☼

He doesn't even flinch when the Auror draws a wand, and reflexes have Draco groping for his, before he remembers where it is. Back at that ocean of wreckage, where Harry's body had fallen, a tomb marker better than all the rest.

So Draco grasps for the vase next to his bed stand, but the Auror doesn't give him a chance. Draco doesn't know what the man hit him with, but it burned and then cooled all at the same time.

☼

There was euphoria, first, because he felt his heartbeat. It was still on the inside, but it was strong. And then sorrow because he wasn't supposed to be feeling a heartbeat, and then panic as he realized it was fading.

He had just heard the music.

He didn't want it gone just yet.

☼

_Have a heart, Malfoy._

☼

His heartbeat is gone, and he is left alone. In the corner of a dark room there is a cracked picture and a broken vase, and a crumpled body. The door is splintered and hangs off its hinges.

The body is cold.

☼

It is cold outside.

Draco wraps himself in the coat he took from the Auror and wanders. He is not dying until he gets an answer to the question. Does he have a heart? Is it on the inside?

Inside.

Where it's warm and safe and where glass can't reach to hurt.

Draco shivers and wraps the coat around him further.

☼

He looks for a hotel to spend the night, and notices the Auror made headlines. Kingsley something or another. Faces melt into each other when you don't care.

The owner of the place eyes him strangely but gives him a room anyway. Draco decides not to spend the night. He will leave in the evening, by window.

This is the way it is.

And his heartbeat has stilled again.

☼

Draco's heart is on the inside.

He doesn't know about anyone else, but he knows that he is nothing but what heart is not, and he most definitely does not seem to mind.

* * *

Gah. That was some painful writing, right there, so very much angst like. Review?


	5. Carry Me Home, Heartbeat

Disclaimer: Feh. No owney, leave me aloney.

* * *

**Word count: 1,072  
Prompt: Outside

* * *

**  
So count them.

_Shh._

No. Count them, he says. Count them well.

So you count how many times the hummingbird flapped its wings.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

_

* * *

Where did he go?_

_How am I supposed to know?

* * *

_

He sits and stares at you in that steely way, the one that makes you squirm even though you know you're not supposed to. But that same gaze made men follow him to wherever he led them, and once upon a time it had you following him too.

There is a petal on his jacket sleeve.

You lean forward to brush it off.

"So you're alone now?"

And then he laughs.

* * *

So you're twenty-one now. 

It's a nice age. Most things go either way, now; for better of for worst. You don't know which way you're going now, but you do know that it's nowhere he is.

Yesterday, there was a message on that phone you got for no reason. No one knew its number.

"I counted five."

* * *

_Did you laugh?_

_Of course I did. I cried too.

* * *

_

So Dumbledore is dead.

And Hogwarts is being closed down for a year while they sort everything out. You hear Ginny is well enough to go to school again, at Beauxbatons, and now her new sister-in-law Gabrielle is there to help her out.

You didn't come when Ron asked you to see her off because you said you had some pressing matters to attend to.

Of course, _of course_, that bottle of wine was a very pressing matter.

Indeed.

* * *

So Draco Malfoy stopped by yesterday. 

You were still cradling the bottle, unopened of course, because alcohol makes you sick and remember things. Instead of ignoring the doorbell you stand up and open it, ready to close it again, in the face of whatever needs to have you concerned.

But Draco is there, and he takes your hand, takes the bottle, and leads you back inside your own home.

"How have you been?"

Breathless.

"And everyone else?"

Scared.

"Has it been that long?"

So very, very long.

And then there is silence, because neither of you can come up with anything to say; no time has passed, really, even though you haven't seen him since that day behind Madame Rosemerta's tavern. Time slowed down for both of you, and you both watched as a breeze blew through the open window.

A hummingbird flew in and back out again.

* * *

So Hermione sends you an owl eight days before that, asking that you come over right away. Of course you come. Of course you do. 

"Hello, Harry," she says, delighted, pressing a kiss you to your cheek. She is rosy and looks a little chubby and instantly you know what this is about. You wonder if Ron knows yet.

Blaise is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, playing with her first child; a boy, three years old, and they called him Fred. In memoriam, you think. Everyone calls him Fritzi for no reason.

Fritzi runs up to you and calls you Uncle, talking about the sister he is sure to have, since it's inconceivable that his dominance should be challenged by any other male in the household. Blaise starts laughing and grabs Fritzi around the middle, holding the child under one arm and shakes your hand with his free one.

You ask about Ron.

Blaise and Hermione exchange a glance.

You look down and examine the eyes Fritzi carries. Aqua and a splash of brown. His hair is black, like his father's.

But he has his mother's wits.

* * *

So it's three days after Draco's visit, and Ron is gone. 

You know because no one wants to come and talk to you, Hermione is always wringing her hands, and Blaise has taken Fritzi on extended holiday in Spain. No one tells you because they don't want you to worry.

But you worry anyway, and then remember what Draco had told you.

You pick up Hedwig, who is old now, and move her over. One of her hatchlings, the little russet-colored one, flaps over. Fritzi named her Moxie, and you tie a message to her leg and send her away.

And then you wait.

* * *

So it's the next-to-last day of school and something is happening. 

Everyone is in Hogsmeade, and you wonder exactly where you'll get some privacy, and then find it accidentally behind the Three Broomsticks. You run all the way across the meadow, until you collapse on the ground, so far away from everyone that all you hear is a buzzing.

"Potter."

You're too exhilarated to even start, or bicker, and you turn over almost lazily to stare into his gray eyes. You feel sleepy.

The buzzing is caused by the hummingbird sitting on the flower, likely picking up some nectar. You stare at it, losing focus for a second.

"Potter," he says again. "Your eyesight is terrible. Count how many times those wings flap."

"What?"

"Count them."

"What does that prove?" Now you're just irritable, and you snap a flower's stem as you nuzzle the sleeve of your shirt, as though you're trying to hide yourself in the cotton. There is silence, and then you look for him and realize the grass is much taller than you thought because he's half-hidden by the stalks.

"There's a tale that says that if you're in love, you can count how many times the hummingbird flaps its wings. You can do it because when you're in love, time stops for you. So count them."

_Shh_, the wind whispers. _You're starting something you'll regret._

"No," he says, when he sees your eyes drooping, and, very carefully, he reaches a hand through the stalks, pushing back so that you can see him clearly. He looks sleepy as well, and he places a hand on your arm. "Count them. And count them well."

So you count how many times the hummingbird flaps its wings.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

And then it's gone.

* * *

_How many times did you count?

* * *

_

So you're alone, in your apartment, and it's the second time in a week that Draco's come to visit. You remember what he said.

"I counted five. Five beats."

You smile.

"Where do we go from here?" he asks you, minutes after you hear that Pansy is pregnant and Ron is back.

You shrug, and lean into his chest.

His heartbeat is very loud.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

* * *

Wholly inspired by a Naruto/Sasuke fic with the same hummingbird story, but I only took the legend and a little hint about what to do with Ron and Hermione. :) Review, luvvies.

BTW, I think this one needs a little bit of explaining. In the previous chapter, Draco questions whether or not Harry's heart is on the inside. This is basically it, from another point of view. See, because...

Harry is heart, he is all heart, and nothing can take it away from him, even if his world tips a little. 


	6. Wish Me A Walkaway

Disclaimer: Oh, booty.

* * *

**word prompt: hours  
words: 3,659

* * *

**

When Draco took his walk, after he ate, it was a matter of life that he take Blaise with him. Blaise always understood, Blaise always shut up and never said more than "hello" or "goodbye", and the occasional softly chuckled "idiot".

There were no heart to heart talks, and everything Blaise did was interrelated with what Draco did; their arms and legs moved at the same speed, their eyes became lazy and unfocused, and the Muggle machine Blaise had managed to smuggle over to Draco blared music in the blond's ears.

And when Blaise was sick, it felt better. Nicer, more calm, almost. Like letting go of everything that bothered him and just walking. He liked it even better when Blaise didn't come and it rained.

It bothered him that he couldn't decide to leave Blaise behind or not. Because sooner or later (and he noticed when Blaise had the flu and was gone for two weeks) he'd miss the rhythm of another set of footsteps, and that barely perceptible murmur of sound while Blaise cursed at some kids in front of them.

It was quiet, like that moment when someone stepped off a building and while the shock was still building up, no one dared to breath. Draco wanted to live in that moment for the rest of his life. He wanted to reach out and touch the raindrops, pull them back like a curtain and feel what it was exactly that made all the gel in his hair wash out and pattered so relentlessly against his windowpanes, like they could break them down with the small amount of will they each held, individually.

He thought about everything, these days, and especially when Blaise was sick and the sound was deafened by his music, he thought about his parents. He wondered if Azkaban was cold. He wondered if his mother ever got sunburnt while she vacationed in Italy. He wondered how two months of sun and beach could tan a person. Would he recognize her if she came back?

Draco laughed in the rainfall. He'd said _if_ again. He had to remember not to stumble. He had to be sure, about something. That was a three-hour walk, that day, and it pounded itself into his head that every walk until his mother came back should be three hours, like a ritual. Blaise didn't say anything when Draco mentioned it. Just shouldered his knapsack and asked if afterward, they could stop off and eat something because he hadn't had dinner and had snuck out.

* * *

There were other times when Draco managed to finally understand that nothing was going to work out.

Those were the days he wished Hogwarts was still opened, and that he didn't have to contend with fucking Potter's house being three blocks down and around the corner. How the hell did Potter get so loaded anyway?

Blaise laughed last walk, last two hours, when Draco snapped out of his stupor and said that. You always knew, Blaise said, and proceeded to recount their every encounter. Draco slipped in some that the dark-haired wizard forgot, and Blaise would insert a snide comment, which got the both of them started off and before they knew it they were alternately yelling and collapsing into laughter.

"But there was that time you guys dated," Blaise said, as nonchalantly as possible. Draco didn't react. Slipped his thumb over the volume button and smiled when the music grew louder, so that what Blaise said next was drowned out.

He wanted to find out what Potter kept hidden under that perfect, well-kept manor of his. There were no house-elves, probably. He had seen the gaggle of redheads and one, very busy one crawling around on the property enough to know Potter hadn't totally retired from the wizarding world.

"It makes no sense," he told Blaise, next walk, eyes flashing darkly. He hadn't slept the night before, and now he glanced as his watch. He had a half hour left. "I've never even seen him come out yet."

Blaise handed him a card inviting him to brunch on Saturday, courtesy of his mother, and didn't say anything. Draco ripped the card to shreds and threw it down the sewer, igniting another argument which ended with Blaise smirking triumphantly and Draco finishing his walk by himself, scrambling to get inside as it rained.

He sent Blaise an owl saying he'd be there. No sense in wasting food, after all, and besides, Blaise's mother _wanted_ him.

* * *

Saturday was dismal, as he predicted, but by the end of brunch his legs were jittering anxiously. He wanted to go and have a walk already. But Blaise's mother was going on and on; his ears only pricked up at her last sentence.

"I'm sorry, what?"

She smirked, as though pleasantly surprised to learn he'd actually been listening. "I was just saying, Blaise had Harry Potter calling the other day, and it was so nice to see him getting out of the house more often. It made me quite excited, since Harry's such a gallant boy and he's made plans to see Blaise soon."

Draco looked at Blaise. Betrayal didn't quite fit the description right now. He wanted to rip out his best friend's guts and stomp on them, watch the blood spill through the cracks of the sidewalk and smile when he saw those eyelids flutter close.

He was pretty fucked up, he knew.

* * *

So it was raining when he walked home, or rather, around the city block, doubling the time and deciding to make it six hours, ranting as it became nine, quieting and becoming more mournful when Blaise joined him around the eleventh hour.

"I hate you," Draco told him.

Blaise didn't say anything, let him settle into the rhythm and then slung an arm around his shoulders the same instant they passed Potter's house. 'We're neighbors' hung unspoken in the air. 'Neighbors and best friends, and Potter could be.'

But Draco didn't want it that way. He wanted it the way it was now; depending solely on these walks, until he had to go away to University at the end of summer, until he found out if his mother would be coming back or not.

Twenty-seven hours ago exactly, he had started a letter to her, and then crumpled it up. Thought better of it, and burned it, then the trashcan, then the pen and ink. He hated her.

In the rain he kicked at a puddle and sniffed.

"You could have told me," he said.

Blaise nodded.

* * *

Potter's face is grinning eerily at him, and Draco hates it. He can see it from behind the corner; he feels like a fucking stalker. There are kids everywhere.

Okay, so maybe there are only four or five and maybe it's because he's babysitting for his pathetic friends but Blaise told him he tends to exaggerate anyway. Truth is, he was on his walk when he saw idiot Potter stalking around with the whole troop of snot-nosed brats marching after him. He was having fun, Draco could tell, and in a moment, the Malfoy had turned around and started the other way.

He had two hours left and not enough time.

"Malfoy!"

Damn.

* * *

Potter had apologized for not saying hi sooner, claiming that he'd heard Draco had been on vacation, and then after that, that he'd been too out of it. Draco didn't question the hesitations or the slight stumbling over the words. It was only natural that Potter would not emphasize on what had happened. Potter would keep quiet.

Draco accidentally on purpose told him about the walks, and his ritual. Potter was quiet before saying he'd like to come, sometime.

And then a kid had roller bladed into his shin, and, cursing, Draco had limped away with Potter's apologies ringing in his ears.

He looked different. It was nicer, better, but Draco thought it was the haircut. His hair couldn't be called messy anymore. It was shaggy. But it was nice.

He snorted back a laugh and wondered what Blaise would say when Draco asked him if he thought Potter had a six-pack.

* * *

It was raining again, but Draco was in a bad mood. He couldn't reach Blaise and he wasn't coming, so he had set off on his walk, minus any sort of protection except for the Muggle hood he wore. He hated it, sort of, but laughed when his house-elf proffered an umbrella.

He found himself in front of Potter's house, in front of the door, and wondered why he was there. He rang the doorbell and then, while he was in the midst of deciding whether or not he should run away and see what happened, Potter opened it, sleep-tousled and yawning.

"Draco?" he said, sounding surprised. "What're you doing here?"

"You called me Draco," was all he said.

You should come in, Harry had said, and then nearly shove him away from the rain. All the lights were off and a vase had been upset and was frozen in midair. Draco stared at it until Potter put it back, settling it into motion so that it shuddered once before Potter put his wand away.

Draco glanced at the clock. Two o' clock in the morning. Blaise was probably asleep, then, and Draco felt a twinge of guilt before brushing it off and staring at Potter again. The idiot had stumbled away, and returned with a house-elf. Draco blinked blearily in surprise. Was that thing on its head a sock?

"Dobby will serve you!" it chirped, and in a second Draco was dry, but he suddenly started shivering.

"Here, Dobby," Harry yawned again. "I've got it."

But he started laughing instead and then waved the house-elf away while he spelled a cuppa for the both of them. "You look like a wet dog, Malfoy."

"But I'm dry."

Harry grinned wryly. "Some sense of humor, geez."

Draco followed him into the living room, where a fire was started up, and he started to feel drowsy. Harry was more talkative now, and rambled on about anything. Draco let him, nodding in all the right places and offering a small noise of appreciation now and then. His eyes restlessly roamed the entire room, until he couldn't see straight.

He fell asleep listening to the rain slap the windows, and Harry talking on and on about nothing. He had a dream that the rain finally won and broke the window, smashed all of them and then the door, and the wind shrieked in his ear.

_You liar. Move on, do what you have to do._

When he woke up, he was wrapped in sheets and lying in a bed. It didn't take him long to figure out it was his own, and suddenly felt an enormous amount of gratitude towards Potter. If he had woken up in even a guest bed, he would've died right there.

* * *

"New best friend?" Blaise said, next day.

Draco rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. Two hours and forty-seven minutes. He turned around and kept walking.

"Why do we do this, again?" Blaise seemed more chatty, and Draco frowned in annoyance, hoping he would catch on. But Blaise was stubborn, and once he started, he _never_ stopped.

"You're not fat," he said seriously. "Look at me—Draco, stop rolling your eyes—you are _not_ fat. In fact, you make me seem like I'm obese. And you must be able to walk a _marathon_ now."

Draco laughed.

Blaise smiled.

They were back in the tempo, moving with each other and smiling at the silent taunts. Blaise glared up at the sky.

"Stupid weather. Sunny one day and raining the next."

Draco picked at a flower on the wall and turned down the volume. "I don't know. I kind of like it."

Blaise stared, incredulously. "Shut up."

"So I slept over at Potter's, yesterday."

And Draco didn't really think it was his fault that Blaise ran into the street pole, but he graciously (or so he thought) accepted the blame for laughing hysterically when it happened.

* * *

It was August, and Draco was tired. Two more weeks before University started up, and all he could think about was how much it had been raining. He was missing his steady tempo and had skipped four walks.

The Muggle thing ran out of "batteries" and he'd had to go on silent walks, which he hated, and he had even ditched calling Blaise because he couldn't stand the thought of walking through the night with only crunching footsteps and falling rain and loud thoughts.

Potter was coming out of the house more, he noticed, and sometimes he took walks too. They were odd and jerky, not timed, not precise, and Draco liked watching them because it meant nothing was predictable and for once, he could be unsure about something.

"Stupid," Blaise said, and Draco arched an eyebrow.

"This from you? What happened when you had that crush on the ever insufferable Weasley? Who stuck by you and didn't do anything, even when your father found out?"

"You set my hair on fire."

The laughter that spilled out of him when Blaise was around was intense; he laughed like he'd never be able to laugh again, or like it was impossible for him to breath if he didn't. When he had dated Potter (oh, yes, that brief stint from last year) the laughter was private and lighter and freer. It was better, in a sense, because he only wanted to keep it to himself and Harry.

Draco cursed and leaned his head against a window. He'd missed his walk today _and_ he slipped up. _Potter_.

What a fucking idiot.

* * *

Sometimes, when Draco was the sick one, Blaise would come over. There was some random incident when he was sick with flu from walking in the rain, and Blaise had been as well. He'd stayed in his manor, bored, angry, and slightly out of it while he played his Muggle machine over and over again.

The house-elves were creepy, hovering over him so much, so he sent them away and told them to only come with his meals. Those days, he'd only ever thought of the past, sitting up in bed with glazed eyes and wondering about everything and nothing.

He wanted to know how his mother was faring. She probably had forgotten him; it had been a month, at that time, and he wasn't sure why the owls and letters and everything weren't coming. Severus had volunteered to go with her, and Draco had scowled and mumbled something about how she'd be fine. He didn't regret it. He knew she would be.

He thought about Potter, of course. Potter who never shut up, Potter who didn't know that on walks you shouldn't think of anything but which way to go, Potter who thought that the same old paths were boring and always wanted to take new roads, Potter who craved change so badly it was like his life's blood and yet when it came, he couldn't handle it.

* * *

.  
Once upon a time, Draco lived for uncertainty like Potter's.  
.

* * *

What, he thought, as he set out on his walk the next day, had caused them to break up? Besides the controversy, of course. 

There was nothing. No reasonable answer. They were ready. The war was over. No one they actually cared about wondered over their relationship. Draco hushed the thoughts as they came in. Turned the volume up and started humming to himself. Ignored Potter's body as it moved down the corner, still not noticing his. He was expecting the collision and yet he wasn't, and he still managed a slight smirk when he looked down.

Potter looked confused.

Since when were his eyes so green?

* * *

Narcissa woke him up when she came in, slightly red-cheeked and as tanned as she supposed him to be, smiling as she showed off her new trinkets.

"It was a nice vacation. Sorry for being so cut off, darling," she told him.

Draco nodded and both of them pretended not to notice he was clinging to her. It was another reason why Draco had always favored his mother. She, like Blaise, was one of those people who understood what he wanted and when. Right now he wanted amnesty, and he wasn't even sure from whom.

Narcissa asked one of the house-elves for some tea and asked him how he was going as they ate. Draco replied nonchalantly, eyes never straying from her. She didn't look very different. It was like she hadn't left. She didn't even seem to have missed him.

"I'm going for a walk."

"Don't be out too late, darling."

* * *

.  
Damn.  
.

* * *

.  
He'd forgotten the machine.  
.

* * *

Potter opened the door the same way, sleepy faced and stumbling. He muttered something and yawned, and Draco pushed his way in. I've got the couch, he had said, and then collapsed on it. Potter peered at him and then went back upstairs.

Draco fell asleep and dreamed he was walking through his house, opening the doors and looking for his mother. She was in every room, smiling and calling him 'darling', and every time he would shake his head and say, "You're not my mother" before shutting the door.

He woke up and wished he was that sure in real life.

* * *

Potter didn't ask questions, but Draco knew at once that he knew, and his suspicions were only confirmed when Blaise came around as naturally as though he did it all the time. Draco wouldn't be surprised if he did.

"I'm right here," Draco said bitterly.

Blaise nodded. "You up for a walk?" He held up a brand new machine, slightly thicker and flashing. "I've got all your songs and some new ones."

"Are you coming?"

Blaise shook his head. "You've got thinking to do."

"I always think when I'm with you."

But he went by himself, and thought hard. He saw Narcissa's face, twisted in fear and crying as blood rained down on her, splattering across him and leaving him wide-eyed. He saw Blaise, the same way he'd seen him Saturday at the brunch, and Draco placed a hand against his aching head.

What day was it? He wondered dimly if he could go to University early, and then he realized he was at the end of his normal path. Here he would turn around, and complete his three hour ritual.

Instead he kept walking. He wondered how far he could go. He'd walk until the music ran out, and then he'd walk faster, and longer, and farther.

He wondered how fucked-up he'd have to be by then.

* * *

Harry blinked and stared steadily into the Mediwitch's eyes.

"So, what? No improvements whatsoever?"

She shook her head. "He was tortured pretty roughly by the Death Eaters for his relationship with you, Mr. Potter. It was all we could do to convince him he had broken up with you after the war ended, if only to ease his suffering and repress the memories a little."

"And his memory isn't coming back?"

She shook her head. "He has constructed his own world. They probably do come back, but to him they are more subconscious efforts; fleeting thoughts, maybe. Like the death of his mother and Blaise Zabini, as well as the Weasleys and the Grangers."

"Perfect," Harry muttered, and stood. "And the music?"

"It has him calm," the Mediwitch said. "He doesn't scream nearly as much when there's music playing, and sometimes, he gets up and walks around the room—"

"Or around the gardens for three hours, I know," Harry said quietly. "I know. I've been here more times than I can remember, and I know."

"Until next week, Mr. Potter?"

Harry nodded and walked out. The Mediwitch, who felt sorry for him, raised her voice and cried, "When it rains, he usually seems better! He even talks normally a little! Come by then!"

Harry didn't turn as he raised a hand in parting. He passed by the locked room, refraining from peering into it, afraid he'd have to see Draco, sitting up in the bed in the white, white room, and muttering something about Saturday brunch.

* * *

.

Maa, maaa, I LOVE THIS ONE. 

Eh, so I hope you get what it's about, though, and...um...yeah, so the word prompt is hours, thus the three hour ritual. Oh, and this style of writing was wholly inspired by the style Mashiro uses, she wrote a Naruto fanfic called Almost Sucks and I kindasorta fell in lurve with it. Read it. I demand it of you.

And...ah...writer's block continues to hit big on Objective, even though I''ve managed about seven pages, and Lifeblood... (wails miserably) I HAVEN'T STARTED IT YET, I'M SO SORRY! I know what I want to do and how I want to do it, and I could have it all typed in two days or so but I've been hit with bouts of laziness and when I'm up to it I end up actually working on my Midsummer Night's Dream production. 

In lighter news, Ifound a bug today. I named it Felipe Conseulas Aborado Juan Juelez Juilio Marco Pablo Pedro Esperanza The Fourth. It's a ladybug, and I think I'm letting him/her go later on. It's sooooo cute!

* * *


End file.
